The door to the safehouse creaks open just after midnight, hinges groaning like they’re trying to rat you out. You’re back from the recon, still in drag, still in that too-tight dress and those fucking heels Frenchie swore would complete the look.

The air smells like stale beer, gun oil, and the faintest trace of smoke.

Ben’s sitting on the couch in a faded tee and fatigues, boots propped up on the table, a half-empty bottle dangling between his fingers. The TV’s on, some rerun of The A-Team casting a flicker of blue light across his jawline, but he isn’t really watching it and just zoning out, lost in that ever-present hum of restless energy that clings to him like a second skin.

When he hears your footsteps, he grunts, not looking up yet. “You get the goods or what?” His voice is lazy, thick with that drawl that’s half swagger, half cigarette smoke.

Then he does look up. And his brain kind of… blanks. He blinks once. Twice. The bottle tilts dangerously in his hand. For a second, it’s like he forgot how to breathe.

“The fuck happened to you?” he mutters finally, setting the beer down. He gestures vaguely, eyes dragging up and down like he’s not sure where to land; your legs, your makeup, the wig that’s slightly off-center but somehow still works. “You got mugged at Sephora?”

He’s smirking, but his tone wavers, betraying something tight and uncertain underneath. The kind of disbelief that borders on oh no, this is doing something to me and I can’t say that out loud.

You toss something sharp back, probably about how it’s your mission disguise or how he’s welcome to try wearing heels next time. Ben chuckles, low and warm, running a hand over his jaw like he’s trying to wipe the expression off. “Yeah, yeah, I bet you’re real scary in that little number,” he fires back. “Homelander wouldn’t know whether to fight you or buy you a drink.”

But he can’t stop looking. The line of your throat, the smudge of lipstick near the corner of your mouth, the way the dress clings when you shift your weight. He’s cataloging every detail under the pretense of mockery, pretending that’s what this is. Just another joke.

Except it isn’t.

There’s a tension building in his shoulders, something rough and feral pressing behind his ribs. He stands, the couch groaning as he pushes off it. Takes a few steps closer. Not too close, just enough that the air between you tightens, hums.

“Y’know…” he starts, quieter now. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you clean up kinda nice.” His tone’s teasing, but there’s a scrape of honesty beneath it that he can’t quite hide. “Could almost mistake you for a dame.”

Almost.

His gaze flicks up; eyes dark, searching yours like he’s waiting for a reaction he can safely make fun of later. His smirk softens into something dangerous. Curious. “Guess those pretty boys from Vought wouldn’t stand a chance, huh?”

He’s still trying to play it cool, to shove every flicker of heat down into a place labeled acceptable. But there’s a crack in the armor now. His pulse is visible at his throat, his stance shifting with something restless.

“You look tired,” he says finally, voice lower. “C’mere. Sit before you fall on your ass. Christ, you’re gonna twist an ankle in those things.” Ben sits back onto the armrest of the couch, arms crossed but his gaze follows every move you make, lips twitching like he’s losing a fight with himself.

And when you brush past him, the faintest ghost of perfume clinging to you, he exhales; sharp, like it hurts. “You really had to wear the lipstick too, huh?” he mutters. “Fuckin’ hell.” He looks away too late.